Glitter, Rain, and a Whole Lot of Pain
by clairenbearen
Summary: She showed up at my doorstep soaking wet, bruised, and covered in glitter.


She sat at the front: row three, seat seventeen. Every day, she would walk in, looking like she was ready to take on the world, and she would settle at that specific seat every day.

I noticed this a couple of months ago.

Now, I couldn't come up with a plausible reason as to _why_. She was smart; that much was certain. That still didn't give a reasonable explanation as to why she had chosen a seat in the hot zone.

The seat next to her – seat sixteen – was empty most of the time. Our class was fairly large; several seniors sat in the back, watching Netflix, here only to satisfy their requirements. This being said, there often was only ever one empty seat, and it was always row three, seat sixteen.

Today was not one of those days.

One boy descended the stairs, futilely searching for a seat in the back. He had blond, unruly hair, pale skin, and – frankly – he looked like he was drunk or hungover on the few days he showed up to class.

Deciding that he couldn't use force to get a seat in the back – or the middle, for that matter – he took the one seat that was still open: row three, seat sixteen.

The change in Mia was obvious. She went from being a smart, kickass girl – who, frankly speaking, was one hell of a rival – to being one of those ditzy girls I knew in high school who had cheated off of my papers and had sex in the school bathrooms.

" _Jackass_ ," I hissed quietly through my teeth.

Professor Sebastian Motaz walked into the classroom, papers in one hand and his briefcase in the other.

I liked him. He was friendly enough, and he didn't mind speaking with his students or helping any of us. While political science wasn't exactly _fun_ , he certainly made it interesting, and he awarded extra credit to those who wrote essays about current world events.

Only Mia and I did.

Professor Motaz situated himself at his podium, taking the room in a glance before noticing that the normally empty seat wasn't empty today. He nodded, straightening the papers in his hands, before saying, "How nice of you to join us, Mr. Bryant."

I tried to suppress a smile.

The boy's sleep-filled voice cut through the otherwise quiet room. "It's Josh."

Professor Motaz decided that it wasn't worth a response.

He straightened. "Before I begin, I would just like to remind you all that I will be deciding internship spots next week," he said, shooting a glance to both Mia and me. "Remember, I can only take one of you to D.C. in the summer."

Josh raised his hand. "I didn't get a form to fill out, Professor."

Motaz sighed and said, "Josh, attendance counts for 20% of your grade. You've been here three times since the semester began."

Josh nodded.

That damn internship.

Mia and I were the two top performers in Professor Motaz's class, and he worked closely with Congressmen during the summer. This wasn't the first year that he had offered the internship, but it was the first year that he had two students tied dead even for that one slot.

Both of us had our motivators.

Before I could begin dwelling on either Mia's or my motivation to get that internship slot, I realized that Professor Motaz had begun his lecture.

 **X-X-X-X-X**

Despite having the reputation of being a "ladies' man," I didn't go out often. I'd been invited to several parties, but I never went. I didn't have the time. Occasionally, I'd go on a date, but it wasn't a regular occasion, and I hadn't yet found someone that I cared to have a second date with.

It was 10:30 on a Friday night, and I was staying home, eating popcorn and reading _The Mystery of Edwin Drood_. Most people would say I was pathetic, isolated, antisocial, or any other variation of those words.

That wasn't it. I didn't enjoy parties, I wasn't interested in most of the girls that I came across, and I had an internship slot that I had to earn.

I didn't drink alcohol. Even though I was twenty-one, I refused whenever anyone offered it to me.

It wasn't that I was trying to be rude; I just…didn't like it, that was all. I had my reasons.

My mom was an alcoholic.

After my father had died, she'd taken it pretty hard, and, well…

I was glad I didn't have to speak to that woman ever again. I didn't even know where she was.

Hell, I didn't even know if she was in this _country_.

Or alive, for that matter.

I looked away from the pages and rubbed my chin with my free hand. Running my hand through my hair, I thought of what I was doing: I was revisiting _this_.

Let me just say that there's a reason for everything I've done.

My uncle had kicked my mother out of the house, after he had discovered that both my sister and I had suffered from emotional abuse. My sister had committed suicide the day before my mom was gone.

My uncle wasn't bad, not really. He'd grown up in an abusive home alongside my mother, and he'd worked hard to get out of that situation. I couldn't fault him for that.

Put enough alcohol and/or stress in that man, however…

I gently brushed the scar over my right eyebrow with my thumb. When I closed my eyes, I remembered.

 _It was just one time_ , I thought to myself, resisting the urge to dig my fingernails into my palms. He had only hit me once.

Even as I thought it, I knew: _he had only physically scarred me once_.

I took in a shaky breath, shutting my book. _Give it time_ , I whispered to myself. _Just give it time. It'll pass._

It was a common habit of mine. Lying to myself. In an attempt to get my mind off of my past, I returned to my book, pausing only once when I heard it start raining.

The bowl of popcorn was finished, and some of the butter remained on my fingers. I set my book on the coffee table, took the bowl, and walked over to my sink to wash it.

There was a loud knock at my door.

Confused, I dried off my hands, quickly glancing at the clock.

"It's past midnight," I muttered to myself as I crossed the living room to answer the door. I opened it, and I saw her.

She had showed up at my doorstep soaking wet, bruised, and covered in glitter.

My mouth dropped, and I looked her up and down again. Purple glitter covered her head to toe. Her brown hair stuck to her pale skin, and she shivered in the rain. There were bruises all over her arms, and a couple of bruises on her collarbone. She tugged her short sleeves down a little more in an attempt to cover some of them. I ignored the hickies.

"What the hell _happened_?" I asked, stepping aside to allow her to come in. She nodded gratefully and gingerly took a step inside.

"I don't really want to talk about it," she said.

I nodded. It wasn't my business. "Do you want a towel?"

She nodded, hugging herself tightly.

I disappeared for a moment, running to the laundry room to grab a dry towel. When I returned, I offered it out to her, and she took it, trying to offer me a smile.

As she wrapped the towel around her body, I noticed red stains on her shirt. They hadn't been there before. "Are you bleeding?"

She didn't look at me. She kept her eyes trained on the ground.

"Mia," I said, my voice firm. She finally looked to me and nodded faintly.

I stretched out my right hand, palm up. "Let me see." I was surprised at how gentle my voice sounded.

She showed me her trembling hands, and I gaped at the deep cut in her left hand. Her right hand had a minor wound; she had probably slipped and fallen in the rain.

I sighed and led her to the couch. "Who did this to you?" I asked, more to myself than to her.

"Nicholas." Her voice was cold. "I don't," she punctuated, "want to talk about it."

I didn't respond. Instead, I got some rubbing alcohol, some gauze, and a bandage. I knelt before her, gently taking her right hand in my own and applying the alcohol to it. She hissed, trying to pull it away, but I gently tightened my grip on her hand. Mia relaxed a little, and I cleaned the scrape. I didn't ask how it happened; it wasn't my business.

As I gently pressed the gauze to her glittered and raw hand, I gestured to her other hand. "You're going to need stitches for that."

"No," she whispered, so silently that I was pretty sure that I imagined it.

"How'd you manage a gash that big?" I said, wrapping her hand.

Her voice was even, but still cold. "Glass."

I shook my head, rocking back on my heels. "You would have told me if it was just glass."

"Nicholas." This time, it was a plea.

Something had done this to her. Something had taken the most confident woman I'd ever met and turned her into someone who was scared and tired and hurting.

Call it whatever you will, but it hurt me seeing her like this.

"Mia," I said, trying to keep my voice as soft as possible. "What is it?"

She shook her head. _Please_ , I wanted to beg her, _tell me_.

But she wouldn't.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "You want to get rid of that glitter?"

She nodded faintly. What had made her so _scared_?

"C'mon," I said softly, helping her up and leading her to my room. Pointing to my bathroom, I began explaining. "Shower's in there. You have to pull the knob out a little for the water to start. Left is hot, right is cold." I shrugged. "I don't have any conditioner or any other hair products. There's some shampoo and a bar of soap."

Mia pressed her lips together, her eyes filling with tears. She pulled me into a hug, briefly disregarding the glitter. "Thank you," she whispered in my ear, choking on a sob.

I rubbed her back. "It's no trouble."

She pulled away, wiping her eyes. "It's a _lot_ of trouble, Nick. You're going to have glitter all over your shower."

 _Nick_. No one had called me Nick since my father had died.

I shrugged again. "Well," I said, looking away. When I looked back at her, I lifted a corner of my mouth in a smile. "It could use a little more pizzazz."

She smiled at me for the first time that night. "I don't think purple is your color."

I quirked an eyebrow. "You may be surprised."

She waited while I retrieved another towel, one of my t-shirts, and a pair of boxer shorts. "I, um," I cleared my throat. "I don't have any ladies' underwear."

She offered me a smile. "I think that's a good thing, Nick."

Twenty minutes later, she emerged from my room, her brown hair in a messy bun at the top of her head and looking more beautiful than I'd ever seen her.

"Um, Nick," she said, shifting nervously from foot to foot. At my look of concern, she continued. "Do you know what an infection looks like?"

I jumped from my seat on the couch, reaching her in mere strides. Taking her left hand in mine, I turned it to see the cut. It was still bleeding, and it had begun to drain. I licked my lips, realizing that it didn't seem quite right. The drainage was cloudy, and Mia winced when I gently pressed the surrounding area of the wound.

"I'm not sure," I said with a sigh. "You really need to see a doctor, Mia." Before she could protest, I continued. "If for nothing else, then just to take care of this." I indicated to her open wound.

She shook her head. _Goddammit_.

I licked my lips again. "I need to at least clean your other hand again."

She nodded, offering it to me.

As I took care of the wound, I asked, "Why did you come to me?"

She shrugged. "You're the only person I can trust."

I raised an eyebrow.

She cocked her head. "That, and I know where you live."

I smiled. _Something's wrong_ , a voice in my head kept nagging. _Something's very, very wrong._

"Mia, I know you don't want to talk about it, but what happened?"

Her chin began to tremble, and she shrank back into the couch. Tears began falling down her cheeks, and almost without thinking, I reached out and wiped them away with my thumb.

She began crying harder, and I pulled her into my arms, gently rubbing circles on her back. "It's okay, I'm here, it's okay."

Her sobs eventually died down, and she rested her chin on my shoulder.

"Josh raped me." Her voice was almost inaudible.

The words hit me full force. _Rape_.

"My God," I breathed.

She pulled away from me, wiping the tears away as quickly as they fell. "He invited me to this party," she choked out, her voice thick. "A-and…" She collapsed into my arms again, and I wasn't comforting her so much as physically supporting her.

"I tried to stop him." Her voice was small. "I tried. I r-ran away, and…"

She was trembling. I didn't push; I didn't need to, nor did I particularly _want_ to.

"He cut me with one of the knives in the kitchen. I ran away from him after that, and I-I didn't know wh-where to go, and so I came here."

I waited until she calmed down. "Mia," I said gently, "you need to see a doctor."

This time, she didn't object.

 **X-X-X-X-X**

Josh was expelled from Stanford, and he had been sentenced to eight years in prison.

I bit the inside of my cheek, puzzling over the case study I was currently reading. I absentmindedly tapped out a four-beat pattern on the stand beside my couch.

"Nicholas."

I looked over at my best friend. She raised her eyebrows and pushed her glasses up. "Stop."

I smiled. "Whatever you say, Mia."

We were heading to Washington tomorrow.


End file.
